My eyes pop open. I check my phone, and it’s 1 a.m. I lay in bed on my back, staring at the ceiling. I’m not anxious. I have no racing thoughts or chest tightness or worry about the future. I feel calm. And yet I can’t go back to sleep. After awhile, I get up and start organizing my linen closet. Before I know it, it’s 3 a.m., and I’ve just spent two hours in the middle of the night organizing towels and shampoo backstock. This insomnia is one of the side effects of my mental health medication.

“Hi, I’m Marcie, and I struggle with anxiety and depression.” This is how I introduce myself every Monday night on my virtual support group. It’s become a habit now, but it never gets easier admitting your mental health diagnosis to a group of strangers. Even writing about my conditions in this blog for you — and the world — to see is terrifying. What will people think of me? Will they think less of me? Will they judge me? This is the stigma around mental health.